


if we're going down in flames (take a bow)

by its_a_good_song



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, please understand I am but a humble idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25017628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_a_good_song/pseuds/its_a_good_song
Summary: connectknee: IMG458.jpgpats: is that the fuckin pens goalie????pats: in your SELFIE?????BFH(aysie): you’re a traitor, Travis<3<3<3: u touched a pen???? Grossconnectknee: wow fuck all y’allG: fraternising with the enemy is a crime<3<3<3: could NOT be me
Relationships: Carter Hart/Tristan Jarry
Comments: 51
Kudos: 204
Collections: Pucking Rare - A Hockey Rarepair Challenge





	if we're going down in flames (take a bow)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be about 3k longer, but I lost the majority of it in a tragic hard drive death the week I decided to move states, which just so happened to be the week it was due. Please go into this with that level of frustration and desperation in mind.
> 
> Title from the Bastille song "Bad Decisions"
> 
> If you found this by googling yourself then you're incredibly nosy. Stay out of my business.

**Inbox:**

**Tanev:** _Hey. Are you coming out with the guys tonight?_

 **Me:** _Nah. Had a rough night. Might have a bug. I’m gonna catch up on sleep._

 **Tanev:** _No problem, dude. Feel better._

 **Me:** _Thanks man._

Tristan is an adult.

No, really.

He’s made it to the ripe age of 24 with minimal issue. He’s a relatively successful AHL goalie. He’s gotten a long term call up to the NHL. He lives in his own apartment. He even pays multiple bills.

So, it’s definitely an adult decision to lie to all his teammates and go to a bar in Philly alone two days before they play the Flyers in the preseason.

Definitely.

Because, see, he’s viewing this as a very mature and adult opportunity to use this rare instance of anonymity to hook up with the hottest guy he can find.

See?

Adulthood.

Objectively, the guy making eyes at Tristan across the bar is a little weird looking. But then again, so is Tristan, and this guy is weird looking in the very specific way Tristan likes, so. 100% of shots, etc etc.

“Hey.” Tristan says, casually ambling over to the guy. They’re about the same height, the guys light brown hair curling forward and into his face. He looks Tristan up and down, not even bothering to hide it, and sips his drink. “Now, what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Really?” The guy laughs, either incredibly charmed or pretending to be. “That’s the opener?”

“You laughed, didn’t you?” Tristan leans on the bar.

“I did.” The guy nods. “Have you got a name?”

“Tristan.” Tristan says. He’d normally hesitate using his real name, but, well. Who the fuck in Philly is gonna know who he is? “And you?”

“James.” He says.

James is a very, very friendly guy.

As in, Tristan’s pretty much already counting his ‘about to get laid’ chickens before they hatch, in the proverbial sense, but he has an incredibly good feeling about tonight.

“Are you in town long?” James asks. He’s leaning most of his weight into the bar, exaggerating the curve of his waist and hip where it juts out.

“A few days.” Tristan shrugs. “You?”

“I live here for work.” James tosses his head slightly to get the hair out of his eyes. “It’s a good city. You should come here more often.”

“If there was good enough reason.” Tristan smiles. Another drink and he might even attempt a wink. He’s 100% getting laid tonight.

“HARTSY!” Someone calls out across the bar. James startles. “HURRY THE FUCK UP, BRO.”

The bottom drops out of Tristan’s stomach. He’s heard that voice before. James just smiles ruefully.

“Sorry.” James steps back and leans over the dividing planter in the middle of the room and yells at his group of friends, “Go on without me!”

“Your fucking loss, bud!” _Travis Konecny_ yells back, before he and a group of _Philadelphia Flyers_ start exiting the bar.

James turns back around and smiles at Tristan, who feels frozen to the spot.

“You were saying?” James steps closer again.

“You’re Carter Hart.” Tristan blurts out.

“What?” Carter’s brow furrows.

“Carter Hart.” Tristan repeats. “The goalie for the Flyers.”

“Oh,” Carter’s expression closes off, his hands going into his pockets. “Are you a fan?”

“No.” Tristan shakes his head, which just makes Carter look confused. “Because I’m the goalie for the Penguins.”

Carter’s face drops.

“No.” He says, point blank. “No, you’re not. That’s Murray.”

“I’m the back up.”

“That’s DeSmith.” Carter presses, a thread of desperation in his voice.

“He got sent down.” Tristan’s fingers feel a little bit numb. “So it’s me.”

For a moment, all they do is stare at each other.

“Shit.” Carter says emphatically. “Fucking shit fucking _fuck_.”

“Yeah.” Tristan nods. “It’s a bit like that.”

They both stand there, awkward and silent, with the music pounding around them. Carter’s face is startlingly red.

“Look, I, um.” He stops, eyes flicking around the room.

Knowing who they are, now, the need for privacy suddenly feels overwhelming.

“We should talk about what just happened.” Carter decides. Tristan nods.

“Not here.”

“No.” Carter agrees. “Uber back to mine?”

“Sure.” Tristan nods, still feeling a little numb in the fingers, and fumbles his phone out of his pocket.

“Oh I can-” Carter starts but cuts himself off, the both of them standing in awkward silence as Tristan realises that, oh, yeah, that would be the better option. But. Well.

“I’ll cover it.” Tristan hands his phone over, app open, so Carter can enter his address. “It’s the least I can do. You’re the one who has to sneak past his teammates.”

“Don’t remind me.” Carter doesn’t look up from Tristan’s phone, but there’s a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth.

Huh.

Okay.

The uber back to Carter’s is awkward and uneventful, both of them silent as they cram themselves into opposite corners of the backseat.

The second they’re through Carter’s front door is equally so, right up until Carter grabs Tristan by the shoulders and kisses him right in the entryway, his hands moving into Tristan’s hair like he’s scared he’ll leave.

(Tristan is not guiltless in this kiss. It could be argued that he’s borderline enthusiastic about it, his hands going to Carter’s waist and holding on. However, he also believes that is splitting hairs.)

“I thought we were talking?” Tristan asks when they break, a little dazed.

“Isn’t this talking?” Carter asks innocently, tongue between his teeth.

“No.” Tristan can’t help but grin, Carter’s smile infectious, but he’s kind of aware that this could go badly very quickly if they don’t address it.

“Spoken like a true Penguin.” Carter scoffs. His arms are still draped over Tristan’s shoulders, fingers still scratching through Tristan’s hair. He’s being purposely distracting.

“Acted like a true Flyer.” Tristan counters.

“Ugh, fine.” Carter takes a step back, arms dropping awkwardly to his sides. “Do you want water, or something?”

“No, that’s, uh.” Suddenly, Tristan feels the awkwardness slam back into the room, running up his spine like a shiver. “Is this a good idea?”

“I don’t know.” Carter shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like either of us could say anything about it. Mutual destruction and all that.”

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Do you?”

“Fair.” Tristan shrugs. “But, you know, I meant the whole… We’re both hockey players, thing.”

Carter’s brow furrows. “I just said-”

“No, I mean…” Tristan sighs. “I mean that we’re both goalies for rival teams and we both just, know this, about each other, now.” He looks at Carter. “Also, fuck you, as if I’d say anything.”

“It was meant to be comforting.” Carter defends. “I wouldn’t say anything either.”

“Good, cool.” Tristan sort of feels like he’s suffocating, just a little. “What do we do now?”

Carter shrugs.

Cool. Great. This is why Tristan stopped hooking up in hockey towns.

“Look,” Carter crosses his arms, his hands shoved up under his armpits. “Does it really matter? Us knowing this, I mean. Because I’m not going to say shit, and I know you’re not going to say shit, and it’s not like we actually face each other on the ice, so…”

“But it feels weird, right?” Tristan can’t explain it, but there’s something close to anxiety in his stomach when he thinks of playing against Carter and just… knowing that he’s like Tristan.

Carter just sighs, a great heaving thing, and runs a hand down his face.

“Can I be honest?” He asks from between his fingers. Tristan nods. “I still think you’re really fucking hot, and I really want to suck your dick, and I’d be happy for us to pretend who we are doesn’t matter until tomorrow if it means I can.”

Tristan lets out a very slow breath. His heart had stopped somewhere in the middle of Carter’s sentence. He definitely feels like he’s suffocating now.

Because, see, he is aware that they are meant to hate each other. In the visceral, bone crunching way their teammates do. In the way that the fan base lives and dies on four times a season. He is aware that this is a very bad idea for all the reasons that sit painfully in his gut.

But…

“Okay.” Tristan breathes out. What does a rivalry even mean to him, really?

Carter’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay? Just okay?”

Trust a Flyer to make this difficult.

Tristan rolls his eyes, steps forward into Carter’s space, wraps an arm around Carter’s waist and pulls him forward, hard and fast, so that they’re pressed chest to chest.

They’re the same height but Tristan’s heavier, and with the element of surprise it’s easy to move Carter and keep him there. Carter sucks in a sharp breath, eyes on Tristan’s face.

“Okay.” He nods, barely above a whisper.

“Just okay?” Tristan parrots. Carter just rolls his eyes and leans forward to press their mouths together.

Tristan wakes up the next morning with Carter wrapped around him like an octopus, three missed calls and another one incoming from Matt Murray.

 _‘Fuck’_ he thinks as he picks it up, Carter’s arms tightening around him when he tries to get up. He swipes to answer. “Matt?”

“Where are you?” Matt asks, perfectly flat.

“Uh…” He doesn’t have a good answer to that. From somewhere near his neck, Carter sniffs loudly.

“ _Oh_.” Matt sniggers. Apparently, he could hear Carter too. “Good on ya, kid, but if you don’t want Sid finding out you might want to find a way to get to team lunch in the next half hour.”

“I will.” He grumbles. Christ, he’s halfway across town from their hotel. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He can hear Matt smiling as he hangs up. Tristan drops his phone back on the bedside table and groans, loudly.

“Shhhh.” Carter whispers. “Five more minutes.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t.” Tristan sighs. He goes to sit up but Carter clings on. “Carter, c’mon. The guys will kill me if I’m late.”

“Sounds like a you problem.” Carter mumbles but lets go. “Fine, whatever, go hang out with your boring friends.”

“Don’t you have some teammates to yell with?” Tristan finally sits up. In the cold light of day, Carter’s room can only be described as a disaster. “How far is it from here to Green Line?”

“Like 25 minutes.” Carter rolls on his back, rubbing his eyes. He’s lithe, all muscle the same way Tristan is, but it sits on his body differently, making him look longer and leaner. “Want me to call an Uber?”

“If you can, yeah.” Tristan sets about grabbing his clothes from the night before, hoping Carter has enough deodorant to cover the bar smell.

“Use the shower, jesus.” Carter kicks him in the thigh. “And you can steal a shirt if you’re worried about it.”

“I’m not…” He thinks about the laugh in Matts voice. “Thanks.”

“Leave your shirt here, you can grab it after.” Carter grabs his phone off the floor and starts tapping away.

“We catch the bus right after.”

“Then I guess it’s my shirt now.” Carter deadpans. Tristan just levels a look at him. “I’m kidding, damn. I’ll bring it to the next game or post it to you, whatever.”

“Whatever.” Tristan nods and begins to walk towards the bathroom, but Carter stops him with a hand around the wrist. “I’m going to be late.”

“I’m not trying to be weird about this.” Carter admits and, okay, apparently they’re doing this. “Just, you know.”

“Yeah, no I. I get it.” Tristan taps a finger against Carter’s wrist. “I get it.”

“Good, I just.” Carter lets go, looking away. “I dunno. Don’t want you thinking I’m an asshole who kicks people out morning after.”

Tristan’s not sure what to say to that, so he just leans down and kisses Carter, close lipped and chaste.

“I don’t think you’re an asshole.” He smiles. “But I will, if you don’t let me shower so I can leave.”

“Jesus, fine.” Carter shoves at his shoulder and rolls away, back on his phone. “It’s just across the hall, there’s a spare toothbrush on the counter.”

Tristan goes.

(Matt only gives him a nod when he arrives at lunch, hair still damp and a slightly too-tight shirt on under his jacket. No one else seems to notice.

Tristan feels… Weird. Like he’s got a big secret in his pocket and if he turns around too fast it’s going to fly out for everyone to see.

As they’re all leaving to get back to the hotel, Geno taps a spot on Tristan’s neck, right at the collar of his shirt, and all the blood rushes to Tristan’s face when he realises why.

“Um.” He says, desperate for an excuse, but Geno only winks at him comically.

“Safety first, little goalie.” He sniggers before continuing on his merry way.

Tristan pops the collar of his jacket and pretends not to think about it.)

**Inbox**

**+31 169 956 724:** _hey. This is Carter. You owe me $7 for the Uber. See you at the next game._

Apparently, Sid and Claude often try to be friends.

‘Try’ is, according to Tanger, the operative word.

“They do this every few years or so.” Tanger explains as they drive to Sid’s house, his giant car moving silently through traffic. “More since they played together at Worlds.”

“Right.” Tristan nods. He’d been told that he had to dress ‘nice’, so he’s wearing the only patterned button up he owns and a leather jacket and he’s feeling stuffy in it.

“It never lasts very long.” Tanger continues, gliding silently as he switches lanes. His car probably costs as much as Tristan’s contract. “Their record was six months, but I think that’s because Ryanne talks to Sid about puzzles and it keeps both of them distracted.”

“And we’re involved because?”

“Because they’re not stupid enough to hang out alone and expect that to work.” Tanger smiles, like it’s obvious. “The rivalry doesn’t really exist off-ice but that doesn’t mean there isn’t bleed.”

Tristan just nods. He’s not entirely sure why he’s been invited, but he’s not willing to question it at this point.

Tanger’s brought wine to the party, a very expensive bottle that he pulls out of a cooler in the trunk.

Tristan had spent the afternoon panic purchasing several kinds of cheese and crackers, put them on the only wooden chopping board in his whole apartment, and then wrapped it in tin foil. He’s never felt more like he’s going to be sat at the kiddie table all night.

Tanger lets them in to Sid’s house and leads Tristan through to the den, where everyone’s standing around the pool table.

(Tristan is suddenly incredibly sure that they’re in this room and not the dining room because _this_ room has photos from Worlds, while the dining room has photos from the Cup. He can appreciate Sid’s attention to detail.)

“Friends!” Tanger declares, clapping Sid on the shoulder as he walks past. He points over at Voráček, who’s scanning through Sid’s liquor table. “And enemies.”

Claude, sat between Sid and Ryanne, rolls his eyes, but it seems fond.

“Hello?” Ghostisbehere looks over at Tristan from where he’s sitting with Geno drinking an incredibly full glass of wine.

“I brought…” Tristan holds up his foil covered platter, cringing when it crinkles and everyone turns to look at him. “Cheese.”

Silence.

“Well.” Claude sighs and nudges Sid’s shoulder, bordering on too hard. “At least one of your kids has manners.”

Sid just shoves him back. “More than can be said for your kids.” He gestures at Ryanne. “Gavin excluded.” He looks at Tristan. “That’s really nice, Jar, just put it in the fridge and we’ll bring it out later.”

Tristan just nods and darts as quickly as possible through to the kitchen to try and avoid another awkward interaction.

Which makes it especially awkward when he walks into the kitchen and sees Carter.

“Hi.” Carter says. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, one foot tucked up underneath him on the stool, scrolling through his phone. His eyes are incredibly wide.

“Hi.” Tristan echoes. He lifts the platter slightly. “I have. Cheese.”

“Dope.” Carter nods. He’s wearing a very clean denim jacket and a striped button up. “Dope.”

Apparently, Tristan’s entire night is going to be made up of increasingly awkward silences.

“Christ.” Carter laughs, his head dropping down to his chest. “This is fucking weird, isn’t it?”

“Incredibly.” Tristan smiles. He brings the cheese over to the island, peels the foil off and sets it in front of Carter. “First dibs.”

“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” Carter raises an eyebrow, but he’s already started cutting himself a slice with the shitty knife Tristan had dug out of the back of his cutlery drawer. “Can’t trust a Penguin, you know.”

“Well I’m new.” Tristan shrugs. It’s not… technically a lie. This is his first time being a full-time back-up. Carter’s got a whole year on him. “So I haven’t learned how to put it in your food yet.”

Carter just smiles.

**Inbox:**

**NoPat:** _tks real mad you got invited to gs party and he didnt_

 **NoPat:** _please tell him its boring so hell leave me alone_

 **Me:** _idk dude there’s a sweet ass cheese platter_

Halfway through the party Sid has had enough glasses of wine that Tristan feels comfortable pulling him aside and asking “So why did I get invited?”

“Because I like you.” Sid says, giving Tristan a playful punch in the shoulder. Tristan just looks at him. “And Claude wanted to bring Carter because he knew they’d all behave better with him around.”

“And me?”

Sid shrugs. “Goalies are weird, I thought he’d want someone to talk to.”

“Hey.” Tanger taps Tristan on the shoulder. It’s getting late, all of them having migrated to the living room at some point. “I’m heading off now. Do you still need a lift?”

Before Tristan can respond Carter pipes up from where he’s reclining in an armchair, “He and I are splitting an Uber.”

Tanger looks at him, brow furrowed. From next to Carter, Ghostisbehere joins in the confused look.

“We’re going to another bar after this.” Carter continues, perfectly bland. “Tristan said he’d show me around.”

“Bad idea.” Claude calls from the sofa.

“It’s a fine idea.” Sid rolls his eyes. “You might want to head off soon, most bars close early on a Thursday.”

“You’re bad parent.” Geno mumbles from next to Tristan.

“I’m a supportive parent.” Sid counters.

“We should go, then.” Tristan blurts out. He looks up at Tanger. “Thanks anyway, man.”

Tanger looks at him for a moment longer before nodding, finishing his goodbyes, and disappearing out the front door.

“Yeah, cool.” Carter stands, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Good night kids!” Claude calls out as they leave.

Standing out the front, Carter scrolling through his Uber app, Tristan just looks at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No.” Carter shakes his head and hands his phone to Tristan. “I’m an opportunist. Put in your address.”

Tristan does.

Tristan doesn’t mean for it to happen again.

Or again.

…Or again.

Okay, like, at a certain point he is aware that he loses some benefit of the doubt when it comes to, quote unquote, ‘sleeping with the enemy’ being a, quote unquote, ‘accident’. He and Carter are definitely making the very conscious and consenting decision to keep sleeping together.

It’s just that, by the same token, they aren’t going out of their way to _plan_ it in a way that would indicate _intention_.

It just… happens.

Or, well, to be more accurate, it’s not like they message each other saying ‘Hey, I hope your team absolutely eats shit tonight. Also, let me suck your dick after.' It’s just that when they play each other (or near each other, or end up at the same parties) they run into each other afterwards and…

Well…

Tristan’s been making a lot of excuses for not going out for drinks after games with the team.

The problem is that some of his teammates are starting to notice.

“Hey.” Brandon says from his stall while Tristan’s walking past. “You coming out tonight?”

“Uh…” Tristan pauses, thinking about how to say ‘Last time we played Philly Carter Hart said he’d fuck me tonight so I really can’t’ without actually saying that, but Brandon sighs before he can say anything.

“Are you okay?” Brandon looks up at him, brows drawn together. “Did someone say shit to you? Give you a hard time? You can tell me, man, I’ll fuck them up.”

 _What?_ “What?”

“We want you to hang out with us, Jar. If someone’s giving you shit or making you uncomfortable, I’ll sort them out, bro, that shit’s not right.”

Oh, god. “That’s, uh…” Tristan’s glad his resting face sits as flat as it does because he doesn’t even have his helmet to hide behind right now. “That’s really, uh, sweet, Brandon, but no one said anything like that to me.”

Brandon’s mouth turns down in a frown. He has a face almost designed to look concerned, and it’s a lot to have pointed at him all at once, so Tristan tries to cut him off at the pass.

“I mean it.” Tristan presses, attempting to give a believable smile. “Everyone’s been super good to me, I’m just a homebody.”

“Jar,” Brandon’s still frowning, leaning forward so he can properly pin Tristan with his Look. “I don’t believe you.”

“Dude, I’m…” Tristan sighs and thinks _‘you know what? Fuck it’_. “It really isn’t that. It’s that I’m, uh. Seeing. Someone. Kind of.”

Brandon’s face clears in an instant.

“ _Bro_.” Brandon smiles, punching Tristan in the arm playfully. “How long?”

“Since the preseason, just before.” Tristan shrugs. “It’s pretty new, we’re still working it all out.”

“Congrats, man.” Brandon nods. “That’s awesome. Are you seeing them tonight?”

“Yeah.” Tristan nods before his brain fully registers that Brandon’s just played the pronoun game. “Yeah, um, they’re in town tonight, so.”

“That’s really awesome, Jar.” Brandon leans back in his stall, his face slightly serious. “Don’t feel like you can’t tell someone on the team about that kind of stuff, alright? Some of us were getting kind of worried.”

“I’ll remember that, yeah. Thanks, Brandon.” Tristan nods. Brandon extends a fist and Tristan bumps it before walking back to his stall, leaving Brandon to go back to taping his socks.

He’s honestly kind of surprised Brandon hadn’t done what most guys normally do, which is crow to the whole locker room about Tristan dating a girl. He’s surprised Brandon hadn’t assumed he was seeing a girl at all. He’s surprised Brandon had just… dropped it. And that he’d been so concerned in the first place.

He wonders what guys like Brandon think of the rivalry, when they’ve got no blood in the game.

He wonders what Brandon would say if he found out the _person_ Tristan meant was the star goalie of the Philadelphia fucking Flyers.

…He wonders what Carter would think of Tristan saying they were _seeing each other_ , like this is anything other than what it is.

**Pens**

**Dumo:** _Brayden and I say good luck and destroy the orange bastards tonight!_

 **Dumo:** _IMG344.jpg_

 **Tanger:** _He seems too young to say bad fucking words, Brian_

 **Dumo:** _he’s a very travelled baby_

 **Geno:** _start them young_

 **Jar:** _none of you should be parents_

Tristan’s gone and gotten all caught up in his own head now.

Because, see, it’s not like all he and Carter do is fuck. It’s most of what they do, but. They talk – about normal shit, even – and play video games and get UberEats. Once, Carter nearly talked Tristan into helping him look for a dog to adopt. It’s not exactly the basis of a stable relationship – not that either of them want that – but it’s a decent basis for a friendship, right?

Right?

Because, well, Tristan’s not actually sure.

Tristan’s not stupid enough to bring it up before, during, or immediately after sex. He likes to think that he’s survived to the ripe age of 24 by making as few stupid decisions as possible, especially when getting dick was involved.

Which is why he brings it up when they’re eating giant bowls of leftover rice and chicken from Tristan’s fridge, 45 minutes _after_.

“Are we friends?” He asks. He may have a good sense of timing, but he doesn’t like to beat about the bush.

Carter raises an eyebrow at him, fork paused halfway to his mouth. “We were fucking, like, an hour ago.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It kinda does.” Carter eats his forkful of rice. “I don’t go around fucking people I don’t like.”

“But do you fuck people you’re _friends_ with?” Tristan’s pretty sure he’s a little beyond being _casual_ about this but. Well. He wants to know.

“Oh my god.” Carter rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “Yes, Jar, I fuck you because we’re friends, Christ.”

“Cool.” Tristan nods and pretends to be interested in his rice. “That’s. Cool. Yeah.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just.” Tristan shrugs. “Wondering.”

There’s a moment of silence that borders on awkward, Tristan strongly willing his face not to heat up, but Carter’s gone totally silent. When Tristan looks back up from his bowl Carter’s looking back, food abandoned on the table and a sly little grin on his face.

“What?” He asks. Carter’s grin widens.

“Hey _bro_.” He leans closer, eyes bright and mischievous. “What’s up _buddy_?”

“Shut up.” Tristan turns away but the second he does Carter surges forward, shoving his body into Tristan’s space and nearly upending his bowl. “Hey!” Tristan sets it down, just in case.

“You’re my _friend, dude._ ” Carter laughs, barely able to keep it together as he shoves his face into Tristan’s neck, kissing the hinge of his jaw between laughs. “My best and only bro.”

“You’re insufferable.” Tristan shoves half-heartedly at Carter’s shoulder, but Carter just grabs Tristan’s hand and tangles their fingers together. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Rude, buddy.” Carter leans more into Tristan’s side, shoving him into the corner of the sofa. “Friendo. Duderino. _Mate_.”

“Fuck you.” Tristan laughs, trying to shove at Carter’s shoulder again even as Carter kisses the ticklish spot right at the base of Tristan’s neck.

“Maybe tomorrow.” Carter pulls back, still smiling, but there’s a sudden furrow between his eyebrows. “You’re staying here for the long weekend, yeah?”

There’s a thread of genuine concern in his voice, like maybe Tristan isn’t the only one who occasionally gets in his head about this.

“Yeah.” Tristan nods, twisting around under Carter so they’re chest to chest, hands still held between them. “Duh. Bros before team lunches, eh?”

Carter just kisses him, still smiling.

Tristan finds out he’s an All-Star the same way everyone else finds out, which is to say, via Instagram.

Or, well, when he wakes up he has several texts and calls from his agent and his parents and from Sid, and several notifications from the Pens Instagram, it’s just that the first thing he actually opens is a DM from Carter.

It’s the post from the Pens Instagram (and Tristan’s kind of smug about that, that Carter had to go to the _Pens_ Instagram just to chirp him) followed by _‘wow so they really just accept anyone, eh?’_

_‘nah, they just don’t let kids in :P’_

_‘you’re a fucking rookie’_

_‘and you’re fucking 21, bud’_

Carter doesn’t respond for a full 10 minutes after that, in which Tristan actually has time to go through his texts and other notifications and even start making coffee before his phone pings.

 _‘congrats, I guess’_ is what Carter sends him. _‘it’s pretty cool’_

 _‘thanks’_ Tristan sends back. There’s something warm sitting in his chest, beating next to his heart.

The All-Star game mostly involves getting upstaged by Tanger’s son, which Tristan couldn’t be happier with. The media circus is his least favourite part of being a hockey player, and if he can avoid talking to journalists by rattling off answers to Alex then, well, he’s going to do it and he’s going to enjoy every second.

The real interesting thing comes at the afterparty.

“Yo!” Travis Konecny yells from across the bar. Tristan’s whole spine goes rigid, fight or flight activating in the least helpful way, and he’s helpless to TK barrelling up to him and shoving a beer into his hands. “Good game.”

Tristan raises an eyebrow. “We… lost?”

“Yes.” TK nods. “But it was still a good game.” He holds up his glass until Tristan cheers’ it.

“Thanks.” Tristan’s not really sure where this is going, but he’s going to try and roll with it. “Same to you.”

TK just nods sagely and drinks his beer, looking around the bar in a way that would come across as casually distracted if Tristan weren’t sober enough to be hyperaware of the situation.

“So when did you and Hartsy become friends?” TK asks, carefully looking just beyond Tristan’s shoulder, which means he doesn’t see all the colour drain from Tristan’s face.

“Uh.” He mumbles, taking a sip of beer to try and give himself time. “Why do you ask?”

TK just looks at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Around the start of preseason.” Tristan admits. “We just ran into each other. He’s a chill guy.”

“He is.” TK nods. “He’s a great guy. One of the best.”

Oh, god. “Look, if you’ve come here to tell me to leave him alone-”

“What?” TK blinks up at him. “No, dude, jeeze.”

“Well the vibe you’re giving off is, you know-”

“Look, it’s…” TK huffs out a breath through his nose. “You know what? Forget it. This was stupid. Carter’s gonna kill me.”

“Why?” Tristan can’t help but ask as TK goes to turn away. TK stops, pauses, and slowly turns back to face Tristan. “Why would he, uh, kill you?”

TK chews his bottom lip for a second, eyes flicking across Tristan’s face, before he finally sighs. “Okay, well, you can’t say shit about this, but he, uh. He’s mentioned you a couple of times. And I know, _we don’t take the rivalry thing seriously off ice_ or whatever, but people do, and I thought it was… weird.” TK shrugs. “No offence.”

“No, it’s, uh.” Tristan’s really floundering. “I get it. Sometimes I think it’s weird we’re friends too.”

“Right, yeah.” TK purses his lips, thinking. “But you’re not fucking with him, right? Like, this isn’t some long con fuckin scheme to get him off his game?”

“What? No.”

“Cause if it is, I can and will kill you.” TK says matter of factly, patting Tristan on the bicep. “Like, no joke.”

“Yeah, that’s uh. Fair.” Tristan drinks more of his beer. “He’s a good guy. Friend. And I’m not stupid enough to do shit like that to your star goalie.”

“Good.” TK nods. “He is a fuckin star.” He takes another long pull of his drink. “When do you two even hang out, anyway?”

Tristan shrugs. “We mostly text. After games, if we can. It’s pretty chill.”

Travis’s eyebrows furrow, like something Tristan said doesn’t add up, and Tristan immediately tries to re-direct.

“So, is this whole conversation going to be twenty questions or are we gonna do something else?” Tristan raises an eyebrow. “Give McDavid shit about fastest skater, watch Barzal get fucked up, I don’t know.”

TK just looks at him for a beat, eyebrows still furrowed, before he shrugs and grabs onto Tristan’s arm.

“Fuck them, I’ll show you a party.”

**_Fly Boys  
_ **

**connectknee:** _IMG458.jpg_

 **pats:** _is that the fuckin pens goalie????_

 **pats:** _in your SELFIE?????_

 **BFH(aysie):** _you’re a traitor, Travis_

 **< 3<3<3: ** _u touched a pen???? Gross_

 **connectknee:** _wow fuck all y’all_

 **G:** _fraternising with the enemy is a crime_

 **< 3<3<3: ** _could NOT be me_

**Inbox**

**Teeks:** _you and I need to have a talk, fuckhead_

“So Travis told me something interesting.” Carter starts, head resting on Tristan’s chest.

They’re in whatever hotel the Flyers set up for their Canada road trip, and Tristan’s managed to wrangle a day off at the end of _their_ Canada road trip before he has to head back to Pittsburgh. They’ve spent most of the day just lounging on the bed, wrapped around each other and scrolling on their phones. It’s remarkably unsexy, but Tristan doesn’t mind.

“Was it about a fish?” Tristan asks. 90% of the time if Carter’s messaging him about TK it’s about a stupid fish fact that Tristan’s pretty sure isn’t real.

“No.” Carter shakes his head, his hair tickling Tristan’s nose. “It was about you, actually.”

Tristan pauses mid-scroll. There’s a flashing ad for sunglasses on his screen but his brain isn’t comprehending it.

“Oh?” Tristan’s working to keep his voice even and hoping Carter doesn’t look him in the face. Resting goalie face rarely works on other goalies. “Only bad things, I’m guessing.”

“It was more a question.” Carter continues, and if Tristan were to overlook his own internal freakout for a moment he’d probably notice that Carter has gone suspiciously still, a thread of anxiety in his voice.

“About?”

“Why you said we were hanging out after games when I said that’s when I was seeing my new boyfriend.” Carter’s trying very hard to be casual.

Tristan’s heart fucking stops.

“Oh.” Tristan can’t think of anything else to say. He almost wants to push Carter away, put distance between them so he can think, but he feels like doing that might make this more of a _thing_ than either of them want it to be.

“Yeah.” Carter says. “He was pretty, uh. Confused. Concerned, maybe.”

“And what did you say?” Tristan asks.

“I didn’t.” Carter huffs a laugh. “I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“Right.” Tristan nods. “Is that how you, uh, _want_ to keep that discussion?”

Carter goes quiet and still. Tristan feels Carter put his phone down on the bed, his arm wrapping around Tristan’s back.

“What have you said to your teammates?” Carter asks instead of answering. “About where you go after games?”

“I…” Tristan’s pretty sure this is about to veer wildly away from the casual place they’ve been keeping it. “I told Tanev I was seeing someone. He didn’t ask, so I didn’t say, so…”

“Yeah.” Carter nods. “I, uh. Um.”

“Are we really talking about this?” Tristan asks into Carter’s hair, quiet.

“I think so.” Carter finally untangles himself and rolls onto his back, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. He knots his hands together, picking at the skin of his fingers. “As adults we’re meant to discuss our feelings, I guess.”

“Ew.” Tristan attempts a joke. Carter smiles, but keeps looking down. Sometimes it becomes incredibly obvious that Carter sees a really good psychologist.

“We’ve kind of avoided this a lot.” Carter continues. “Maybe you were right that we should’ve discussed it back at the start.”

“Probably.” Tristan nods. “So, is this the part where we get together properly or the part where we break up?”

“Are those the only two options?” Carter asks.

“I don’t know.” Tristan shrugs. He feels cold in just his shirt now that Carter’s not wrapped around him. “They seem to be the one’s we’re discussing.”

“It feels weird to give it a name.” Carter admits. “Feels weirder to stop. But I…” He huffs. “I like you too much to want to deal with the bullshit we’ll get for telling people, though.”

Tristan looks over at Carter, at the way he’s pulled his knees up and curled his shoulders in, and Tristan feels his heart beat hard.

“I would.” He says. Carter looks at him, sharp. “If it meant not sneaking around, I’d deal with the bullshit. For you. Us.”

“Oh.” Carter breathes. “Really?”

“I…” Tristan pauses, his heart still beating fast. “I think our teams would understand. And I think even if we don’t put a name to it I want it to be… as real as it feels.”

Carter’s eyes search his face, lower lip caught between his teeth. Whatever he finds, his face relaxes.

“I do too.” Carter starts smiling, his hand reaching out to land between them. Tristan reaches out and closes the distance, tangling their fingers together. “And maybe. The word ‘boyfriend’ isn’t so… weird. If it’s real.”

“Yeah.” Tristan squeezes his hand. “I think so too.”

**Fly Boys  
**

**< 3<3<3: ** _IMG357.jpg_

 **< 3<3<3: ** _if you guys say anything mean about my boyfriend I’ll never stop a shot again_

 **BFH(aysie):** _EXCUSE ME_

 **Ghostie:** _?????????_

 **Vora:** _can you believe_

 **connectknee:** _I FUCKIN KNEW IT_

 **pats:** _i have never been more upset_

 **G:** _please god don’t make me and Crosby fucking parents in law_

**Pens**

**Jar:** _IMG357.jpg_

 **Jar:** _This is my boyfriend Carter. I will only accept nice comments. Good night_

 **Guentz:** _wat_

 **Rusty:** _well this sure is a surprise._

 **Turbo:** _Thanks for telling us. We’re proud of you, Jar_

 **Geno:** _I’m not_

 **Guentz:** _Wat_

 **Captain:** _Is this why Claude was texting me???_

 **Jar:** _Thanks, guys_

 **Guentz:** _WAT_

**Inbox:**

**CH:** _How'd your idiots respond?  
_

 **Me:** _Okay. Yours?_

 **CH:** _TK's been screaming at me for 45 minutes so. Pretty good actually._

 **Me:** _Okay._

 **CH:** _Just okay?_

 **Me:** _You're a nightmare._

 **CH:** _< 3_

**Author's Note:**

> YES I decided to write a fic centered around hooking up as a plot point YES I am asexual and cannot write porn YES we exist and YES we regret our decisions


End file.
